


Guilt

by cryptolonium



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Gen, No Romance, Post-Canon, and yes arcon is totally copped from the "other" story i gotta get around to, half the chapters all of the terrible decisions, not related to the bargain, terrible people becoming slightly less terrible is my ouvre, yes its yet another fic with these two losers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptolonium/pseuds/cryptolonium
Summary: Local dumpster diving weirdo finds talking metal space ball, more at 11





	1. Press "start" to continue

It didn't really matter how he got there, but he was there nonetheless. On the cold wet ground, doomed to a future of watching over a scrapyard. It was dull dull dull work. Better than being in space, he supposed. 

 

Then it started raining.

 

Never mind, Wheatley thought. This was worse. He wasn’t even able to roll himself to shelter because the ground had gotten all sticky.  _ Weird _ . His confusion about the ground kept him busy for a while, almost a week of trying to rock his chassis back and forth and only digging himself deeper, until something new showed up to distract him. A stupid smelly human. Wheatley rolled his eye. What were humans good for besides… carrying him around. Okay, they weren’t TOTALLY useless.

 

Wheatley watched the human for a while. It was a male of an indeterminate age, in his 40’s perhaps, stooped and skinny with too long limbs and heavily callused hands, softly muttering to himself as he dismantled a poor, defenseless fax machine and stuffed the wires and rotary parts into his bag. It was like watching someone get disemboweled. Fax machines weren't sentient of course, but it was the principle of the thing. Wheatley tutted and suddenly the man lifted his head from his gruesome work, eyes narrowing and nose twitching, frozen in place. 

 

Wheatley made a concentrated effort not to move or make any noise. It wasn’t hard, since he didn’t have to breath or blink or tense his nonexistent muscles. The man slowly let his guard down and headed in a different direction, out of Wheatley’s field of vision. 

 

He, in all his infinite wisdom, didn’t realise that the human would probably have to return at some point. When he heard the squelching boots sound he tensed up. He was just buried enough that the human didn’t see him, but this unfortunately resulted in a foot/hull collision that sent the human tumbling into the cold, heartless embrace of gravity.

 

He tripped over wheatley and fell right into the ground, almost face-planting but catching himself just in time, landing awkwardly on his side. He flipped himself rightside up, wiping the mud out of his eyes and sitting up to glare at whatever offending object he had stepped on. He briefly screamed when he saw Wheatley, but managed to quell it before it attracted any attention. Not that there was anyone else nearby for at least a mile. He grabbed Wheatley by the handle and yanked him out of the little hole he’d dug for himself, bringing him right up to his face. 

“ _ How did you find me here? _ ” The man whisper yelled. His eyes were wide and wild and bored right into Wheatley’s optic.

 

“What? What are you talking-”

 

Wheatley was cut off by yet more unintelligible screaming and some rambling about a tracking chip. He was roughly and suddenly flipped over and registered some scraping sounds before his view was lit up with warnings about a “chassis breach”. Very suddenly his optic flickered up and down and up and down like the wheels on a slot machine, and his language processors briefly switched to Lithuanian and then to Urdu before  _ something  _ was yanked out and everything “kachinged” back to normal. Whatever it was that had been removed was smashed to pieces by a brick right before him and he was helpless to prevent it.

 

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!” He yelled in a panic.

 

“YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT I’M DOING!” The man shot back. 

 

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT I KNOW WHAT YOU KNOW!”

 

Wheatley's language processors failed to register the string of what were probably profanities that followed- whatever it was it wasn’t among the 26 languages he was programed to comprehend. 

 

More shouting on both ends followed as Wheatley was stuffed into a dark bag, surrounded by machine guts, his pleas for freedom ignored as he was zipped snuggly in. If a passerby were to see them (and several did as they got closer to the city outskirts) they would see a very disheveled man hauling along several bulky bags, from one emitted a faint blue glow and muffled noises.

 

The first thing he saw upon being released was… more trash. Lovely. They were surrounded by broken and half assembled machines, mismatched parts, and what, if he had been able to put the pieces together, he might have recognized as a mix of stolen and reconstructed aperture tech. He did not put the pieces together, as might be expected. 

 

“So, why are we still in that dump? Do you  _ live  _ here?”

 

The man was incredulous. 

 

“This is  _ my basement _ . I live  _ upstairs _ .” 

He jerked his thumb upwards and plunked Wheatley down one of the tables, nestling him in between a skeletal computer case and a clear plastic box overflowing with batteries, rusty screws, and plastic bottle caps. A too long pause followed before the man spoke again.

 

“I removed your tracking chip. I don’t know how she found me here, but as far as she’s concerned her little spy is  _ dead _ .” 

 

“Chip…? Mate, I don’t even know who you  _ are _ .”

 

The man snorted.

 

“Who are you anyway, some sort of… hairy… trash person?”

 

“ _ What _ ?”

 

Wheatley unwisely kept talking.

 

“I mean, you’re  _ probably  _ human, I’ve seen plenty of humans, never really been a fan, can you blame me though, you’re all just so  _ disgusting _ , that is assuming that you are a human, you look a little.. weird. Are you defective or something?”

 

“SHUT UP for a second, you little…  _ evil orb _ !”

 

“Oooh, clever. Veeery clever.”

 

The man exhaled.

 

“Look. I just want to know why she sent you. Does she want us back? Is she sick of torturing her testing bots? Did she already blow through th-the human vault?” He sounded like he was going to vomit, and looked down at the floor, ignoring Wheatley. He covered his mouth and breathed heavily through his nose.

 

“Shouldn’t’ve-”

 

He looked back up, his eyes filled with ice.

 

“I’m not going back. Not again.”

 

“Whoah whoah whoah slow down. I don’t even want to  _ look  _ at you, mate, you’re really playing yourself up a bit too much. I don’t think anyone wants you back anywhere.” Wheatley attempted to console him.

 

It took a minute for a response to come.

“Alright.  _ If  _ you’re not here to spy on me for her, what  _ are  _ you here for?”

 

“I don’t know. I was in space, then I was here, there was a seagull...”  

 

“Space. Right.”

 

“YEAH, funny how that happens. Let me tell you I did NOT want to end up here. Not that I’d rather be back with GLaDOS...”

 

“Hm.”

 

“Let me tell you, she was a real piece of work, it's a real shame she's back in charge now.”

 

The man thought “back in charge” referred to the time between when Chell had first deactivated her and when she had been woken back up, again, by Chell. That and the fact that she had somehow escaped, for good this time, was all he knew about what had happened, gleaned from an overheard conversation between a chatty blue core and one with with a neon pink optic and a thick Minnesota accent, and some grainy security footage.

 

He nodded.

 

“That's… one word for it.” 

 

Wheatley wobbled his handles.

 

“So are we just gonna stay here? In the basement? Cause I've gotta say, this place is in a right state-”

 

“ _ We're _ not staying here,  _ you _ are. At least until I figure out what to do with you.”

 

“What!? That's… I'll tell you what that is, that's pure discrimination that is,  _ typical _ anti-core human.”

 

Tough. I don't want you watching me while I sleep.”

 

“Gross.”

 

“I’ll come get you in the morning. Don’t. Touch. Anything. Don’t RECORD anything, Don’t even look at anything.”

“In case you haven't noticed, I DON’T HAVE HANDS. Idiot. Moron. Who’s the moron now, huh? It's you. You’re the moron now. Not me. You. Moron.”

 

The man lowered his head, rubbed his temples, and looked back up at Wheatley. 

 

“What core  _ are  _ you, anyway?”

 

Wheatley didn’t recognize the significance of a human on the surface even knowing what a core was. He just assumed it was common knowledge, like the life cycle of the cone snail. Or capoeira. 

 

“I’m Wheatley. I’m the… Wheatley… core. What human are you?”

 

He hesitated, internally arguing with himself about whether or not he should answer at all. Finally, he gave in.

 

“Doug.” 


	2. Doug, Cube, and the Great Deal of 20whenever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Crona for beta reading

Cube made him shower and change into clean… cleaner… clean- _ ish _ clothes before he collapsed into bed, sinking into the nest of blankets and comfort objects piled on top of the mattress.

 

“Rough day?” Cube asked. Doug pulled Cube up next to him and curled around it.

 

“What’s it look like?”

 

“It looks a lot like an average day, Doug.”

 

“Mmm.” He mmm’d noncommittally. 

 

“You need to do laundry eventually.” 

 

Doug uncurled and buried his head under what he was pretty sure was a pillow. A muffled “aaargh” came from underneath. Cube meant well, but sometimes it’s chastisement could get annoying, especially when he wasn’t in the mood for it. 

 

It had been easier for him before. 

 

For nearly two years after his escape from Aperture, Doug had been semi-nomadic, wandering from town to town, only risking contact with other people if he was desperate for food, and managing to avoid any questions directed at him. It was just him and Cube most of the time, and he was just fine with that. Then  _ they _ had found him. He didn't know how they'd managed to track him down, but track him down they did. Doug suspected he was implanted with some kind of tracking chip, probably on the back of his neck where he couldn't cut it out. That was probably it. 

 

The ‘they’ in question were people claiming they represented a company called “Arcon Industries”, a one time business partner with Aperture, selling them much of their raw materials, including the moon rocks. Doug knew of Arcon, he had heard the name come up once or twice in department meetings. He didn't really know anything about them though. They forced him to swallow a bunch of pills (they  _ claimed  _ it was Ziprasidone) and didn't even relent when he bit one of the handlers in the arm. The man and woman interrogating him were so irritatingly  _ professional _ , perfectly courteous even when he accused them, in so many words, of trying to drug him and take Cube away.

 

They called him “Dr. Rattmann”, and had proposed a deal. Before the incident, Arcon and been in the process of buying up several patents from the financially struggling Aperture, but before they could complete the transaction, Aperture had gone silent, and the deal fell through. Obviously, it had never happened because everyone involved had died horribly in one way or another. 

 

Everyone but Doug.

 

They had asked him if he knew what long fall boots were. 

 

Words had never come easily to Doug, especially not now, it took him a long time to process what was being said and even longer to dig through his brains neglected language center for a response. 

 

Hesitantly, he said “yes.”

 

They then asked him if he knew how to make them. 

 

He did, sort of. He had seen the schematics plenty of times in co-worker’s labs, and after being shaken out of cryo-sleep, he'd built himself a pair of rudimentary leg braces of a sort, to help him navigate the crumbling facility. He'd removed them once outside, they made it difficult to run on the soft earth. They were safe inside Cube at the moment. 

 

The man and the woman patiently waited as he hauled them out and clunked them down on the table. 

 

He was offered a small monthly licensing fee if he would allow them to produce his design. “For the army”, they said. Doug thought it was a rather roundabout way of doing things, but he said nothing. He was told that it was a “very generous offer”. Doug shrugged. He had nothing to lose. Paperwork was scrutinized and signed. He was given a large wad of bills for the first few months, not having a working bank account, and a business card. If he had any other designs for Aperture technology, give us a call, they said. He nodded. He didn't have a phone.

 

He still didn’t have a phone, come to think of it. Not that he ever felt like he needed one. Who was there to call? 

 

\---

 

Morning came too soon, and he had to force himself out of bed and into the bathroom to make a token attempt at getting ready. 

 

He was in the middle of lazily and aimlessly pushing his toothbrush around his mouth when Cube spoke up.

 

“Doug, what are you going to do about the core?”

 

“Ummm…” 

 

He had no idea what he was going to do. He could either leave the core in the basement, in which case he would never get a moment of peace any time he went down to his workshop, and leaving him alone upstairs wasn't appealing either, leaving an AI in  _ his _ space, unsupervised? Unthinkable. But the only other option right now was to bring him along to work, and that was probably not a good idea for a number of reasons.

 

“Why don't you just get rid of him?” Cube asked. “Toss him in the river and be done with it.”

 

“I-” he didn't know why not. Doug was not, all things considered, a “good person”. He was not above exacting revenge on those who had done him harm, that was basically all that had kept him going in Aperture. Unlike GLaDOS, the core hadn't directly hurt him, ever, or tried to, or probably even could, although he didn't put it past Aperture to outfit a seemingly harmless robot with some kind of death laser. But he hadn't exactly  _ not _ been a threat either.

 

A decent compromise (to Doug at least) was to stuff the core into a bag again so he couldn't record anything, he was certain that Wheatley was sending footage to GLaDOS, he just needed to find the camera… 

 

“I told you like, eleven or twenty-three times, I'm not recording anything, _ I want to scrub the last 24 hours from my memory files _ .” Wheatley whined.

 

Doug didn't acknowledge Wheatley and calmly zipped him into his dirty blue canvas tomb.

 

The walk into the town proper was filled with questions yelled at him from his back. 

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Work.”

 

“Where’s ‘work?’”

 

“Town.”

 

“What do you do?”

 

Doug didn’t answer, ignoring Wheatley in favor of adjusting the strap on one of his other bags. 

 

“Hey! I asked you a question!”

 

Still no answer.

 

“Doug! Hey! Doug! Are you listening to me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Oh.  _ Oh _ , I see what you did there. Well, you  _ are  _ listening to me, because you  _ have to _ , because I’M NOT THE ONE WHO WANTED TO KIDNAP ME.”

 

“I’m not making you spy on me!”

 

“ I'm not spying! I can't even see!”

 

People had started to stare. They ducked into the first building with an “OPEN” sign that Doug could find.

 

It was packed with people.

 

Doug muttered a quiet “fuck” into his hands. 

 

“Morning Mr. Rattmann!” Whirling around to face the source of the voice, he was confronted with Catrina, one of the waitresses at the Diner he realised they’d ducked into. A couple patrons looked up from their breakfasts and waved; most people having accepted Doug and his occasionally unsettling behavior as just another fixture of the town. 

 

He somewhat awkwardly nodded and sat down in one of the booths, defeated. He couldn't leave without ordering something or they'd think he was plotting something. He plonked the Wheatley filled bag down next to him as Catrina handed him a laminated menu and asked if he wanted coffee.

 

“We have almond milk today, want to try that instead of the soy?”

 

“Almond?” Doug had never heard of such a thing. He'd never had trouble with dairy before Aperture and he'd dropped off the face of the Earth before milk alternatives became mainstream. 

 

It sounded good though, and he was pretty sure he hadn't developed a nut allergy over the years as well, so he mumbled his approval and pointed to the oatmeal on the menu. Catrina had served Doug enough times to understand his method of ordering. Wheatley, to his credit, waited until she was gone before speaking up.

 

“Let me out now” he wiggled his chassis in frustration. “I won't yell anymore. Probably.”

 

“Probably ’s not good enough. People are already staring.” 

 

“Want me to start screaming now?”

 

Doug unzipped the bag a tiny bit. He absently rubbed his arm as he tried to figure out how best to tell a robot that he was an almost entirely unknown technology, and that people would have very unpleasant reactions learning about him. He leaned down to whisper to Wheatley.

 

“Wheatley, you're… you're fine, as you are, I'm... just worried about… some (all, he meant) of these people might not have seen a… anything like you before. They might try to take you away, or get scared.”

 

“Take me away? From this awful place? Please!”

 

“They’re g-gonna take you apart and rip out your insides to see what makes you tick! And I'll let them! I don't care, I  _ already know _ what your insides look like!” Doug harshly whispered.

 

“Liar!  _ I _ don't know what my insides look like, how would you? You… you know what, that's not the point. Let's settle this like men. Robots. A robot and a man. Settling things.”

 

“What… are we settling?” Doug was very tired and regretted not taking his chances with dumping the core into his laundry pile for the day for safe keeping. 

 

Catrina, who, during this argument, had gone behind the counter to pour coffee and relay orders, now made the mistake of bringing Doug his food. She saw the harsh blue light of Wheatley’s optic and peered a little closer. Doug felt her approach and jumped and whipped around, Catrina almost dropping the plastic tray she carried. 

 

“ _ What IS THAT. _ ” She whispered as she reached towards Wheatley’s zippered cocoon. 

 

“NOTHING.” He fell over onto the booth to cover the incriminating light. 

 

She furrowed her brow.

 

“A phone.” He tried again. Her brow furrowed even further. 

 

“ **It’s none of your business** .” he finally settled on an answer. They were at a deadlock. Catrina huffed. He was, technically, right. She couldn’t physically force him aside (she could have, but it would have probably gotten her fired). She slammed the bowl down in a huff and whipped around, her thick black braid whapping Doug in the face. 

 

When she returned to collect the check, typically paid for with crumpled ones, fives, and a smattering of coins, he shoved the money at her and scurried away with his mysterious bag. As she counted and smoothed out the money to make sure he hadn’t underpaid, she found among the notes a… note, but of the pale yellow sticky variety. He had taken up the entire square with his wandering handwriting. 

 

_ I changed my    mind, I’ll _

_ tell you what I  _

_        have after  your shif _

_ t meet me outsi _

_    de 55 West Birch Ln  _

_     green one _


	3. So many questions, so little patience.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, i finally updated

 

**So many questions, so little patience.**

 

Doug had so many regrets. He had a lot of regrets in general, actually, but a fair amount were about finally caving in and agreeing to let someone in on at least a small part of this whole stupid ordeal. Cube’s constant monologue was not exactly helping to sooth the pounding that began in his temples whenever Wheatley opened his mouth. Wheatley, of course, had no mouth. This was unfortunate, as it meant he couldn’t be smothered with a pillow while he slept.

“What were you thinking? Did you actually think this would help?” Cube was uncharacteristically panicked, which was never a good sign. Cube usually only panicked when Doug had a reason to take a ziprasidone.  

 

“I don’t know, I’m - I can’t just keep him in my basement, Cube. It’s _sentient_. And I don’t want it in my house.” He had left Wheatley lying face down in the battery box, and told him to count all the double A’s, then all the triple A’s, hoping that would keep the core occupied and not recording anything.

 

“Do you want _her_ to take him?”

 

“ _No_ , no one deserves that. But if I can just - she’s already suspicious, I thought it’d be easier to just get this over with.”

 

“Like ripping off a bandaid.”

 

“You’re made of plastic, how would you know what that feels like?”

Doug was genuinely curious, and in his momentary distraction stopped pacing a hole in his bedroom floor.

 

“Well, - ”

He never got to hear Cube explain itself, a knock on his door shut Cube up.

 

“Oh no.”

 

“You really just brought this on yourself, Doug.”

 

“I don’t need to be reminded, _Cube_.”

 

He pulled on another sweater as an extra layer of definitely protection between him and a five foot six waitress, and also because it was very chilly out. Brisk, one might call it, if one so dared. He half trudged half sprinted to the front door, this ludicrous combination of reluctance and what was not so much enthusiasm as nerves caused him to tumble over an not yet unpacked box and crash into the couch.

 

“Ow! Fuck!”

 

He hobbled the final few feet to the door, looking out the peephole to make sure it was who he thought it was before unlocking it.

 

\---

 

Catrina had been very tempted to ignore the note, as the whole situation smacked of serial killer. She had always been too damn nosy though, her sisters made sure to remind her, just because she had read a diary here, or snooped under a mattress there, or hid in a closet to take incriminating photos once… twice.

 

She had brought her pepper spray and brass knuckles and pocket knife and air horn just in case, but she was at ease enough to keep them zipped up in her purse for the moment, until she got an actual whiff of something sketchy. She knocked, and after a crashing noise and a loud swear the door opened.

 

She always forgot how short Doug was, barely matching her in height, she normally only saw him sitting down. He blinked up at her like a damp, skeptical owl. After a moment, he waved awkwardly and stepped back to let her in.

 

“Hi… You can come in, or _wait outside_...” he hoped she’d take the second option, but she breezed past him into his living room.

 

“Inside, okay.” he muttered, mostly to himself. He glanced over at his… guest? Guest, to find her making herself at home, already sitting on his couch and pawing at the miscellania on his coffee table.

 

“Don’t get territorial, Doug, she doesn’t want your junk!” Cube called out from the bedroom. Catrina didn’t react to Cube’s shouting, but instead looked right at him. He flinched back a little bit.

 

“So, Mr. Rattmann,” She began. “What are you going to show me?”

 

Doug, not used to casual conversation with other (organic) people, stammered out a responce, trying to explain both what he was showing her and why, and doing a very poor job of it.

“Look, I don't really want to bring you into this, but… I can't deal with this by myself. So… just stay up here, and I'll go downstairs and get the thing, the thing might be… it’s not dangerous but it’s probably not something you’re used to, I hope, then bring it back up to show you, okay?”

 

Catrina didn’t know what to say to that, other than a very confused “O-kaaay.”

 

“Okay. Don't move. I'll be right back.” Doug scurried to the basement stairs, leaving his guest alone and unsupervised.

 

Catrina, relieved she hadn’t been dragged into some kind of murder basement against her will, looked around the living room. It was a small space that led directly into the kitchen. There was no TV, computer, or console, but there was an FM/AM radio, and a few scattered books. Spread over the coffee table and the floor were drawings, done in mixed paint and ink, ranging from moderately creepy to intensely creepy. A few things showed up time and time again: a box with a heart, sometimes wings, a woman drawn with much more care than anything else, white ovals with little black legs and beady red eyes, a menacing yellow light, piles of bodies and choking figures, a stick figure with a scribble for a face.

 

She shuddered involuntarily. It was a smallish town, everyone and their brother knew about Doug, at least a little. Most people left well enough alone, Doug was quiet, did good work whenever he came into town. That didn’t stop the whispering though, that was bound to happen when someone showed up out of nowhere one day, and brought with him some government agent types who buzzed around for a few days afterwards. Was he some kind of ex-spy? An actual spy? A criminal? Was he in the witness protection program? Who had he had to betray!? Catrina was in the camp who thought he was in witness protection, or something like it. But…

 

Doug came up the basement stairs holding a bulky shape wrapped in a hideous yellow tea towel. It was moving and making muffled noises.

 

“This is… this gonna be...” Doug started. The bundle began to speak.

 

“Let me out! I’m being kidnapped again! Hey! I can’t see! Is my optic glitching out? I told you it was too damp in that ‘basement’ for my delicate machinery! But NOOOOO, of course you wouldn’t listen and now I’m DYING. For all I know I’m already dead! Congratulations!” The shape finished dramatically.

 

“Calm down, Wheatley!” Doug snapped. “Give me a second, don’t make me drop you right on your hard drive.” at that threat, the shape stopped squirming. Doug unwrapped his bundle. Inside, was a whitish gray ball with a surprisingly emotive blue… eye?

“Well it’s about _time_ .” Wheatley rolled his eye. “Honestly, could you have walked up those stairs any bumpier? You’d think you had a bullet in your leg! O-oooh. What is THAT?” His eye swivelled to scrutinize the new human. “Are you a human? Or whatever _he_ is.” his eye swivelled back to glare at doug.

 

“Wheatley, would you fucking shut-”

“What _is_ that?”

“You’re one to talk, what’s growing out of your neck?”

 

Doug roughly shook Wheatley to get him to stop.

 

“Wheatley, this is Catrina. Catrina, Wheatley. He’s a core.” He shifted wheatley to one arm and rubbed his eyes, feeling very tired. He was too old for this.

 

“Any questions?” He asked sardonically. Wheatley spoke up first.

“Yeah, uh, I have a question-”

“Wasn’t asking you. _Catrina_ , do you have any questions.” Catrina was mostly speechless.

 

“Is that… is that like a robot?”

 

“ _Like a robot_ is she daft?” Wheatley scoffed. ”I’m a - Doug, could you, could you put me on the counter? Thank you. I’m a highly sophisticated artificial intelligence!” Doug added air quotes over the word “intelligence.”

 

“Did Doug make you?” She addressed this question directly to Wheatley.

 

“Doug? Pfft, that man couldn’t program his way out of an infinite loop. Wait, actually, Doug can you program? Never mind. I was created by a whole team of scientists. I guess if you throw a thousand humans down a salt mine and give them nothing else to do, they might actually have a good idea or two between them.”

 

“I… found him. Here. near here.” Doug elaborated, eager to distance himself from talk of underground laboratories.

 

Everything about the last minute finally hit Catrina right in the face like a semi-truck full of anvils and pianos. She seemed to be drawing a blank, not only on questions, but also on breathing and blinking.

 

“I’m gonna… sit down, for a second.”

  



End file.
